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37
Letters from a Cat
·
Helen Hunt Jackson
33
Two
things
troubled
me
very
much
while
I
was
confined
to
the
cradle:
one
was
that
everybody
who
came
in
to
see
your
mother
laughed
as
if
they
never
could
stop,
at
the
first
sight
of
me;
and
the
other
was
that
I
heard
poor
Caesar
mewing
all
around
the
house,
and
calling
me
with
all
his
might;
and
I
knew
he
thought
I
was
dead.
I
tried
hard
to
make
your
kind
mother
notice
his
crying,
for
I
knew
she
would
be
willing
to
let
him
come
in
and
see
me,
but
I
could
not
make
her
understand.
I
suppose
she
thought
it
was
only
some
common
strolling
cat
who
was
hungry.
I
have
always
noticed
that
people
do
not
observe
any
difference
between
one
cat's
voice
and
another's;
now
they
really
are
just
as
different
as
human
voices.
Caesar
has
one
of
the
finest,
deepest-toned
voices
I
ever
heard.
One
day,
after
I
got
well
enough
to
be
in
the
kitchen,
he
slipped
in,
between
the
legs
of
the
butcher's
boy
who
was
bringing
in
some
meat;
but
before
I
had
time
to
say
one
word
to
him,
Mary
flew
at
him
with
the
broom,
and
drove
him
out.
However,
he
saw
that
I
was
alive,
and
that
was
something.
I
am
afraid
it
will
be
some
days
yet
before
I
can
see
him
again,
for
they
do
not
let
me
go
out
at
all,
and
the
bandages
are
not
taken
off
my
leg.
The
cradle
is
carried
upstairs,
and
I
sleep
on
Charlie's
blanket
behind
the
stove.
I
heard
your
mother
say
to-day
that
she
really
believed
the
cat
had
the
rheumatism.
I
do
not
know
what
that
is,
but
I
think
I
have
got
it:
it
hurts
me
all
over
when
I
walk,
and
I
feel
as
if
I
looked
like
Bill
Jacobs's
old
cat,
who,
they
say,
is
older
than
the
oldest
man
in
town;
but
of
course
that
must
be
a
slander.
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